SHANTEL’S room no longer looked like a bedroom. It looked like a war room.

The curtains were drawn halfway, allowing only a filtered stream of evening light to spill across the floor. On the bed lay printed photographs— Amelia stepping out of her car, Amelia at the resort café on a Tuesday afternoon, Amelia at a charity gala, poised and untouchable. Each picture had tiny notes scribbled beneath them in red ink.

**Tuesdays — 2:15 p.m. — corner seat.

Prefers latte. No sugar.

Usually alone.

Assistant sometimes calls at 2:40 p.m.**

Her desk was worse.

Magazines featuring Amelia’s interviews were stacked in uneven piles. One was flipped open to a...